


Loaded

by nomelon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Reality, F/M, First Kiss, Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-03
Updated: 2010-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-07 00:07:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomelon/pseuds/nomelon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A slightly AU tale of John Winchester laid up at the roadhouse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loaded

Jo appears just in time to see him fumble and drop the Beretta on the floor with a loud, embarrassing clatter. John grits his teeth and bends to pick the gun up. His damaged shoulder twinges sharply, that damn sling getting in the way again, and the bruise that spans his entire lower back aches as he straightens, but he manages not to huff and puff like an old man. He still has that much of his pride.

Jo hovers in the doorway. "Those were my dad's." She rests her cheek on the doorframe, her eyes on the weapons he's been working on.

John knows who the guns belonged to. The Beretta hanging from his hand brings back a slew of memories, few of them good.

"Just thought I'd clean them," he says. "Tired of feelin' like a fifth wheel around here."

Jo lifts her chin, gesturing towards the gun in his hand. "Hope it's not loaded."

John has his mouth open to bark a denial when he realises he's being teased. It's been a while. He'd almost forgotten what it felt like.

"No, I, uh. Just having a little trouble."

"Can't be that hard." She saunters into the room, her eyes wide and guileless, watching him closely.

John can't do anything but stand there as she comes closer. She stands by his side at the workbench and stares down at the firearms spread out in front of them.

"You just take 'em apart and give 'em a rub, and try not to drop them on the floor in the process?"

"There's a little more to it than that. And you have to be able to put them back together again."

She's a slip of a thing, can't be more than eighteen, and it makes him feel old. John's never had much experience with kids outside his own family, and never with girls. He's hit with a wave of loneliness. He misses his boys. Been too long since he saw them last.

He can't figure out why he feels like he's intruding all of a sudden when he's been resting up at the roadhouse for the better part of a week. Or why he wishes that the door hadn't swung almost closed behind Jo when she walked into the room.

The gun she picks up looks too big in her hand, black and heavy as it lies in her palm.

John takes it from her, and sets it down carefully. "Why don't I show you?"

She shrugs, but seems to listen well enough as he explains to her about each of the weapons, how to strip them down, how to clean them.

He's doing okay until he gets to the recoil spring in the 92. He can't hold the gun _and_ get a good enough grip on the damn spring to compress and remove it with his injured arm, and the effort is hurting more than he'd care to admit. The springs have a tendency to go flying across the room if you don't know what you're doing, and John's lost the damn things more than once, been hit in the face once when he wasn't paying enough attention.

He's already doubting the wisdom of being so thorough considering his current injuries. These guns are in pretty good shape. He could easily have got away with just checking the barrel and the slide, made sure everything was oiled, and called it a day. Looks like Ellen has been taking good care of Bill's old weapons stash. Not that John doubted for a second that she would.

Jo takes the gun from where he has it cradled awkwardly against his chest. She takes the spring out smoothly, and sets it on the bench.

"Nice job," he says. Jo doesn't look at him, and her face doesn't change enough that he'd call it a smile, exactly, but there's definitely a flash of dimple.

"You do this kind of thing a lot?" she asks when she's working on the frame with an oiled rag, concentrating on the task at hand, and doing a good job by all accounts.

"Some," he says. "I was a marine once upon a time. It's kinda ingrained."

She nods, thoughtful, bringing the gun closer to her face for a better look as she works a twisted corner of the rag into a crease.

John's been around enough over the years to know that she's no stranger to hunting. She knows that her daddy used to kill monsters before he ended up in the wheelchair. Knows that the only reason Bill had another five years -- good years -- with his family before the cancer took him is because John Winchester was there to carry him out when things went bad in California.

She knows that it was a werewolf that messed John up when Bobby brought him here last week. She ran back and forth to the kitchen, fetching clean towels and hot water, and watched with wide eyes as John bled all over the bar and choked down whiskey while Ellen and Bobby fixed him up as best they could.

"A marine, huh," she says, and holds the gun up for inspection.

Her skin is warm when their hands brush as he takes the gun. Her nails are short and clean, her skin just a little rough, probably testament to bar work. There's a smudge of gun oil on the back of her hand.

John smoothes it off with his thumb.

This close, he has the scent of her. There's the faint tang of beer, but underneath, there's something else, something delicate, and he breathes it in, swallows it down, and feels the pinch of panic, because whatever the hell he thinks he's doing here, he needs to stop it before he gets in out of his depth.

Jo takes the decision out of his hands. She lifts her face to him and kisses him before he can even process that it's happening. He sees it coming, but the soft shock of connection still makes him gasp. Jo takes advantage of it, touching her tongue to his lip. She's light as a songbird, sweeter than peaches, and John's dizzy with the urge to push her up against the workbench and lick the sweetness out of her mouth.

But he doesn't move. Not a muscle. He lets her set the pace of whatever this is because he shouldn't be here. Not like this. Not to mention that Ellen will hand him his ass if she so much as gets a sniff of John laying a hand on her baby girl.

Jo gives him this crooked little smile when she draws back, her cheeks pink. She looks off balance, like she's not quite sure what to do with herself now, and John can't take his eyes off her. He swallows, hard, too aware of his own skin as her hand trails down from the sleeve of his t-shirt to his wrist. She squeezes once, glances at the workbench, and she walks away without a word, her steps quick and light.

John stands there for a long, empty moment, his heart beating too fast and too loud, before he gets his shit together and stashes the weapons back in the old duffle, tucking them away out of sight.

Ellen's stacking glasses in the bar when he goes downstairs. Jo is nowhere to be seen. The double gut-punch of loss and relief feel much the same to him.

John takes a seat, guilt a heavy stone in his chest, and Ellen wordlessly sets a beer in front of him.

"Jo cleaning those guns again?" she asks.

John doesn't say anything, just nods. There's not much that goes on under Ellen Harvelle's roof that she doesn't know about. He'd do well to remember that.

Ellen smiles and shakes her head. "Every week, regular as clockwork. Doesn't matter if they've been used or not. I swear she could do it with her eyes closed if she had half a mind to. Girl's been taking care of her daddy's guns ever since..." Ellen doesn't blink, just carries on stacking, but there's sadness in the set of her mouth, and they both know what she's not saying. "She's good with guns. Bill taught her well."

She smiles again, fainter this time, somewhere faraway, and goes back to her glasses, and John... John just closes his eyes for a second and smirks, keeps it close and secret, thinking of small, pale hands, knowing when he's met his match.

The beer is sweet as it goes down.

-end-


End file.
